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I even started taking the money, mostly since I was much too practical to let a little thing like guilt get in the way of common sense. I would have been simply another fifteen-year-old catholic schoolgirl, doing her research, doing her nails, doing the little ridiculous things that little ladies do. I had not been a little woman in a very long time though. Deke didn't mind, he said that was a great thing because he could really charge more, especially if the guy I was going with picked me up at school. That advantage turned out to be worth a couple of hundred dollars extra, although I didn't really like it.

Way too much for a ninth grader to spend, even after Deke took his cut. Choosing me up at school was worth an extra 200, which I thought was outrageous, but you 'd be stunned how lots of men wanted precisely that. Like it showed beyond a doubt that they were getting the genuine offer, an underage whore to draw and fuck . These were all older people too, like my father's age, or more typically even older, in their 40's and 50's mainly. He said that was generous since he was my manager, my agent, my security guy, my advertising and transport all rolled into one. He purchased my clothes and the stuff I need to work, like condoms and lube and scrap like that. It was more like acting than anything else given that I had to in fact like these guys for an hour or 2. I had to act younger sometimes too, as a little woman possibly eleven or twelve years old; but never older. I liked acting though and I believe I had a real talent for it.

The guys loved me for a little bit, although some of them liked me for genuine and asked me if I 'd marry them, or at least come back to their cities and live with them. They were in love with who I pretended to be for that brief time we were together, that's all, and while part of me felt lonesome due to the fact that I understood it wasn't actually me they liked, mostly I felt a little much safer that method. Like a person who loved me would not injure me, you know? I 'd had sex with like fifty people or something, many of them desiring me to call them Daddy while we did it. Some of them desired to call me by a various name, their child's name, or a niece or the little lady next door maybe.

I might close my eyes and think of the man who was making love to me truly was my daddy. I could talk with him, tell him I enjoyed him, how he made me feel special and grown-up and liked. And someplace, somehow along that trip, I 'd started to believe it. I 'd go house and see my real dad and practically forget that it hadn't been him that I 'd fucked an hour or more before. I was falling in love, in developed love, and I couldn't help it. It was configured into me, maturing not as his daughter but as his wife. We 'd done whatever however consummate our relationship, I thought, and he had to feel the same way. Didn't he?

 

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